


damage control

by salazarsslytherin



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Arguing, Blow Jobs, Bottom Freddie, Dom Brian May, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Top Brian, freddie is a brat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-26
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-12-18 13:34:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18250898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salazarsslytherin/pseuds/salazarsslytherin
Summary: The argument starts, as most of theirs do, over a song.In a fit of temper, Freddie cuts the strings on the Red Special.





	damage control

The argument starts, as most of theirs do, over a song.

It's Freddie's song. Brian dislikes the lyrics, the vocals, the beat, the bass line, the drums—

"So, _everything_ , basically," Freddie snaps at him when Brian first airs all this in the studio after Freddie had sketched it out for them and played the raw demos he had already made.

It quickly escalates into a screaming match that both Roger and John wisely flee from and things don't improve from there.

Two days and nobody knows _how_ many arguments later and neither of them have budged an inch, in fact both have only grown more stubborn. The more Brian insists that the song is rubbish and needs to be overhauled, the more Freddie decides that he really believes in it and digs his heels in about every change Brian wants to make.

Roger suggests, once, that they just leave this one for now and come back to it and, after the reaction he gets, never suggests it again.

For two days the studio becomes a warzone that nobody particularly wants to be in, so everyone slopes off as soon as they can to get as drunk as possible before heading home and pretending that everything's fine. For two nights, Brian and Freddie head back to the apartment they're renting and fall asleep without a word, silent and fuming on opposite sides of the bed.

On the third day, it's worse. Freddie yells at Brian for breathing too loudly while he's trying to concentrate, Brian shouts and swears at Freddie for tweaking the settings on one of his amplifiers. Handwritten notes on the song get ripped up, someone's cup is thrown. Brian chucks Freddie's sandwich away because he hates the smell. Freddie nearly trips on Brian's clogs and instead kicks them across the room.

Sometime in the early evening, with the casualties now racking up at four cups, a six-pack of beer bottles, Freddie's favourite mic, and two pairs of headphones, Brian's had enough.

He tells Freddie to fuck off before proceeding to fuck off himself, banging the door so hard the handle makes a dent in the plaster behind it before he marches off down the hall.

"Oh, that's it!" Freddie yells after him, following him out the door. "Run off, _that's_ going to get this song finished! You're fucking _impossible_ to work with you _pig-headed wanker_!"

Brian doesn't respond, just marches on down the corridor and slams a few more doors behind him so Freddie really gets the message.

There's no point in carrying on; without Brian there and with Freddie in such a foul mood, nothing is going to get done. Everyone clears out, band members, producers, and technicians alike, until Freddie is left alone in the studio and feels all the worse for it.

His temper hasn't cooled in the least and he aims a kick at an armchair, which does nothing at all to the chair and possibly _breaks his fucking foot_ , which only incenses him further. It fucking _hurts_ , Freddie has to lean against the armchair and hold in a cry for a good few minutes.

When he feels slightly better he smashes another cup, which doesn't cheer him up at all, and he feels half-mad with the need to _do something_ to get his anger out of him. He feels like he might explode with rage and without Brian there to explode _at_ he's helpless to get rid of it.

He storms around the studio in a black fury until he lights upon the Red Special leaning in its stand with the other guitars and a mad, terrible urge seizes him.

The scissors are in the little kitchenette and Freddie has them in his hand almost before he's really realised what it is he's planning on doing, striding back down to where the guitar is kept. Brian's pride and joy, the _stupid_ fucking thing, Freddie often suspects that Brian loves it more than _him_ —certainly he cares more about what it has to _say_ than about anything Freddie does.

Freddie kneels down, delicately wraps his hand around the neck to hold it steady, and works the scissors in under the strings.

Cuts.

They snap with a disjointed _twang_ of noise and spring in all directions.

The regret is _immediate_ ; Freddie reels back in horror at what he's just done, his anger gone as if in a puff of smoke. He shouldn't have done that.

Freddie stares, almost shocked at seeing his handiwork. The scissors are still in his hand and he launches them across the room as though disposing of the weapon will make him any less guilty, will somehow stop Brian from noticing.

Oh fuck, oh _fuck_. Why did he do that? It didn't feel good enough to warrant what will come of this. Didn't feel good at _all_ , now that Freddie thinks about it, and now he doesn't even have his anger to hold onto, to assure himself that this was a just and fair response to the way Brian's been acting for the past few days. He can't even remember what the fuck they were arguing about now he's staring at what is going to be the source of their next, much bigger, argument.

Christ. Fucking _fuck_ , why did he let his temper get the better of him? Freddie catches one of the broken strings, lifting it up to look at it. The break is jagged, clearly intentional and not a case of being dropped or accidentally...oh, he doesn't know, whatever the fuck can accidentally snap all six strings on a guitar that's been sensibly left in a sturdy stand in a room with very little traffic moving through it.

Brian is going to go _mad_. And Freddie is well aware that he deserves it; this is too far, not just a step too far but _way_ too far, even for him. It's fine to break a cup or two, he's even tossed Brian's clothes out before and broken photo frames, records, even that tiny little penguin statue that Brian had loved so much. But that guitar is, and always has been, off-limits; some silent agreement, an unspoken respect, has always kept it not only safe from any of Freddie's temper rampages but safe from even the _thought_ of being touched by one. Before tonight Freddie had never even _considered_ breaking the guitar, and he wishes with his entire heart that such a thought had remained a stranger to him.

He sits down on the floor just stares in silence for a long, long time. The studio is silent around him, not a soul in except for him and the awful evidence of how badly he'd wanted to hurt Brian over something as stupid as a fucking song.

"Fuck," Freddie mutters succinctly to the empty room. He has to fix this.

Energised suddenly, Freddie springs to his feet and runs for the phone, jabbing in Ratty's hotel room number because he doesn't know Jobby's, but it rings though and nobody picks up.

"Useless cunt," Freddie mutters ignominiously, punching in Phoebe's number instead. He'd cleared out of the studio before with everyone else, on Freddie's imperious orders, but now he's not there when he's needed Freddie's temper kicks back in.

"Phoebe," he barks down the phone as soon as it's picked up. "I need you to get hold of Ratty or Jobby right now, it's _urgent_!"

Phoebe is as calm as ever when confronted with Freddie in a mood or a panic (or, more often, both). "Okay, Freddie, I'll go and find them," he assures him with the soothing confidence Freddie needs to hear right now. "Do you want me to pass on a message, or…?"

"I need one of them to get me a new set of strings for Brian, I need them _right now_ , Phoebe!"

Undeterred by the volume of Freddie's demand, Phoebe agrees, swears not to tell Brian on pain of being fired, and hangs up. Freddie is once again left alone in the empty studio and finds himself wandering back to the guitar, unable to help himself from looking at it again, like a bruise he needs to press.

He can't actually imagine how angry Brian will be, isn't sure he has the right parameters for it. He's never done something this big before, never lashed out so hurtfully, not even with his words. He's seen Brian angry, of course, deliberately wound him up during countless arguments like the one they've been having for the past few days, but it's usually settled with a screaming match and a make-up shag. Something tells him Brian isn't going to forgive him quite so easily for this, might not even forgive him at all—

No— _don't think like that_. Jobby can get new strings, attach them to the guitar and tune it up and nobody will be any the wiser, least of all Brian. And Freddie will go home to him and apologise for being a bastard for the past few days, they'll make up, record the song, and life will go on.

Freddie manages to cling to that hope for just under two hours, which is the time it takes between calling Phoebe and Jobby showing up at the studio with new strings.

In that time Freddie drinks four cups of terrible tea (he's never gotten the hang of making it himself) before he switches to vodka. He's on glass number two when the sound of the studio door carries through to where Freddie is sitting cross-legged in front of the Red Special, contemplating his own awful temper and what it must say about him that he could do this to Brian. He is, without a doubt, the worst boyfriend. He often wonders why Brian sticks with him—the sex is good, but is it good enough to make up for shit like this?

Will this be the final straw? Could Freddie really blame him if it was?

Freddie downs the rest of the glass and gets up.

"Fred?" Jobby calls out, several doors down the hallway opening and closing before he shoulders his way into the room Freddie's waiting in.

"Did you bring the strings?" Freddie asks, not bothering with any kind of greeting—this is a dire situation, he doesn't have time for manners.

"Yeah," Jobby says, pulling the packets from his jacket pocket. He must've been out drinking, Freddie can smell it on him, but he has the strings and seems steady enough so Freddie grabs his elbow and hauls him over to Brian's guitar.

"I need you to re-string it," Freddie says, pointing, as though the damage isn't quite self-evident enough.

Jobby actually gives a tiny gasp of surprise and sinks to a knee before it, running his finger over one of the strings just as Freddie had. "Holy _shit_ , what the fuck _happened_ to it?" he asks, frowning as his finger finds the sharp little end and pokes.

Freddie scowls. "Never _mind_ what happened to it!" he says impatiently. "I need you to _fix_ it."

"I ain't touching that with a fucking barge pole," Jobby says, shaking his head and getting up. "You need to get Brian. With all of 'em broke like that the torque could have changed in the neck, he's gonna need to look at it. I'm not touching it without him here."

Freddie goes cold all over. "What?" he whispers. "It could be _broken_?"

"Not bad," Jobby says, bending over to inspect it again. "Just might need to be realigned."

"Well, _do it_!" Freddie snaps at him, now nearly beside himself with panic.

"Like I said, I ain't touching it without Brian, he'd fucking murder me if I messed it up."

" _You_? He's going to murder _me_!" Freddie screeches.

Jobby arches an eyebrow at him. "Why would he murder _you_?"

"Because I fucking broke it!" Freddie confesses wildly. "It was _me_ , and if you ever dare tell him I'll have you fired, you won't ever work for another band again. Now can you please fix it, _right now_." Freddie all but stamps his foot, more than willing to throw as big a tantrum as required to get what he needs.

"Look, I'm sorry, Fred, but I'm not doing it without Brian, he knows more about that thing than anyone else and you _know_ how precious he is about it."

Freddie _does_ know, thank you very much, which is precisely why he called Jobby here.

"What fucking use are you as a guitar technician if you won't even fix our fucking guitars!"

"I _will_ fix it, _with_ Brian," Jobby replies, remarkably calmly.

Freddie is infuriated that he's holding fast and wants to shake him. "Brian _can't_ know, can't you _see_ that?"

Jobby gives a helpless sort of shrug. "He'd notice anyway if it had all new strings, he was playing it just fine earlier."

"How would he—it wasn't _just fine_ earlier, he was playing _far_ too fast for the song we were recording," Freddie can't stop himself from pointing out—he's spent enough of his afternoon yelling at Brian about this particular point that he's not going to let it slide here. Not with Jobby, anyway. After this fiasco with the strings, Freddie is far more inclined to let Brian play as fast as he fucking likes on the damn record.

"The _strings_ were fine," Jobby amends amiably.

"The strings are clearly _not_ fine!" Freddie screeches, flinging a hand out to point at the Red Special.

"Well not _now_."

Freddie wants to slap him and just barely refrains. "Oh, fuck off, then!" he says, turning away. "Fat lot of use _you_ were."

Jobby shrugs again, unbothered by Freddie's acidic response, and hands him the new strings. "I'll come and have a look at it with Brian in the morning," he calls over his shoulder as he heads for the door and leaves Freddie once again alone.

Freddie abandons the guitar and makes his way back to the little kitchen to pour himself another vodka and take a seat at the little table they have in there, nursing it slowly while he stares at the wood grain. He knows, rationally, that he needs to just tell Brian what's happened, apologise and hope for the best. He should go back to their apartment and tell him he's sorry for the argument and how he's acted about this song and what he's done to his precious guitar and that he'll help him fix it, if help is at all required.

But he doesn't move. He can't make himself move, he feels paralysed by the very thought of that argument. It's not the sort of row Freddie thrives off, the big, shouting, screaming matches about key changes and chord progressions. It's a quieter row, a proper row, about something real. So he stays in the studio while the clock slowly ticks past sociable hours and swills vodka around his glass, staring into it and forgetting to drink.

It's too dark in the kitchen to be able to make out the clock by the time the studio door opens again.

"Freddie?"

It's Brian, his footsteps sure and steady down the corridor outside. And the light's on in the studio, he's going to go straight in there.

"I'm in here!" Freddie calls out hastily, not particularly wanting to face Brian but he _definitely_ doesn't want him going in that room so it's his only option.

"In…?" Brian opens the door with its usual tell-tale creak and flicks the light on, making Freddie squint. "Why are you sitting here in the dark?" Brian stops on the threshold and takes him in for a moment before giving a soft sigh and coming over, dragging a chair up next to Freddie and dropping into it.

"Come here," he says, leaning over to pull Freddie into his chest, briefly kissing the top of his head. "I've been waiting for you at home, have you been here all night?"

Freddie nods. "Sorry about the song, darling," he says quickly, pulling away. "Let's just start over with it, okay?"

"Okay," Brian says slowly, mildly suspicious because Freddie _never_ capitulates that easily over one of his songs, not after fighting this hard for it. "Is everything alright?"

Freddie fully disentangles himself and nervously bites his thumbnail. "You should...go look in the studio," he says weakly.

Brian frowns, definitely suspicious now. "Why?"

"Just go and look." Freddie closes his eyes as he says it, unable to look at Brian for a second longer. He feels ill as he hears Brian get up, chair scraping over the floor, and walk out.

Freddie counts his steps—five to the studio door...the creak as it opens. No click of it closing, he leaves it open behind him. Seven more steps to cross the studio and then a long, terrible silence.

Just when Freddie thinks he can't stand it a second longer, Brian breaks it.

"Freddie," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "Can you come in here, please."

Freddie wants to fucking _disappear_ but he gets up and slinks over to the studio door, waiting on the threshold.

Brian has his back to him but he somehow looks formidable, tall and deadly still where he stands staring down at what's been done to his guitar. He doesn't turn or acknowledge Freddie at all.

"Say something," Freddie begs eventually, taking a few hesitant steps into the room. "Brian, _please_."

"Did you do this?"

"Brian, I'm so sorry—"

" _Did you do this_?"

Freddie nods shamefacedly. "Yes," he whispers.

" _Why_?"

And isn't that the question. Freddie doesn't want to answer, doesn't want to lay that ugly part of himself bare, but the evidence of it is right before the both of them; there's no hiding it.

"I wanted to hurt you," Freddie says quietly. "I was angry."

"About the _song_? Do you even realise how _irrational_ that is, Freddie?" Brian doesn't raise his voice, it's just hard and cold and it's so much worse like that. Freddie wants him to shout and yell, he knows _that_ Brian still loves him, knows how to fight back and knows how to calm him down. _This_ Brian, with his icy fury, is a stranger to Freddie, this is the man who deals with invasive paparazzi and his ex-wife's lawyers. Not Freddie, never Freddie.

"I _do_ , I'm _sorry_. _Please_ forgive me, Bri, I know this is awful but I'm so, so sorry. I got you new strings," he offers tentatively, holding out the little paper packets.

Brian takes them without looking at him.

"I asked Jobby to fix it but he said he wouldn't without you. He said the neck might be broken." Freddie tries very, very valiantly not to cry because if anyone should be crying it's Brian but he's a few glasses of vodka in and he _hates_ this so he gets tearful despite his best efforts.

Brian ignores Freddie even when his voice catches, runs one of the loose strings between his thumb and forefinger.

It's easily the most effective way he could ever punish Freddie, who feels about ready to fling himself at Brian's feet and beg for forgiveness, for him to just _say something_ , even if it's telling him to fuck off. He _hates_ being ignored but tries valiantly to remain silent along with Brian, just waiting for him.

"Brian…" he says softly, after what feels like it could easily have been ten minutes of pure silence.

"Are you still angry about the song?" Brian asks, his voice just as calm and detached as before.

Freddie shakes his head. "I don't give a fuck about the damn _song_ , Bri!"

Brian just nods but Freddie can't tell if it's a good nod or a bad nod.

"Brian, please talk to me," Freddie pleads. He despises this blank wall that Brian's become— _Brian_ , who Freddie can usually read like a book.

And finally, _finally_ Brian turns to him, but it's worse. His face is just as carefully blank as his voice and Freddie nearly flinches when that coldness is directed at him, feels his heart seize in anticipation of the next words out of Brian's mouth, something like, _You're not the man I thought you were_ , or, _I think this is it for us._

"What exactly is it you want me to say, Freddie?" He sounds so reasonable, just mildly curious, like he doesn't actually give a fuck and he's only being polite. Like fixing this doesn't matter to him.

" _Anything_!" Freddie cries. "Tell me you hate me and to fuck off or that we can sort this, just _say something_!"

"Is that what you want me to say? That I hate you?"

"No!" Freddie cries, angrily wiping his face because tears are fucking _useless_ to him right now. "Of _course_ not, that would kill me."

"I don't," Brian says. "But I have _never_ been this angry with you."

His voice is so cold as flat as he says it, Freddie can feel himself trembling with too much emotion, like his entire body is just waiting to fall apart at the first cue.

"I know," he says miserably. "I'm so sorry, Brian."

"Yeah, I keep hearing that. ' _I'm sorry_ '," Brian says, and there's a note of heat in his voice now, something a bit more _real_. Something bitter. "You're always sorry, aren't you, Freddie?"

Freddie doesn't know how to respond to that and just wipes his face again. "Do you want me to go?" he asks quietly.

Brian doesn't reply for several seconds and Freddie can barely breathe.

"No," he says eventually. "No, you can stay here with me while I fix this. You sit there and have a good long think about how you're going to make this up to me."

Freddie's heart jumps. "Darling, I'll do anything you want," he says quickly, sitting down on the drum riser because it feels less like Brian can change his mind and tell him to leave if he's not standing.

"Anything _I_ want," Brian repeats, dragging a chair over and sitting down himself. "No. I'm not telling you. You tell _me_ what you think you should do to make up for this."

He ignores Freddie after that, his attention on his guitar as he carefully unwinds the broken strings and tosses them to the side to begin the process of re-stringing it.

Freddie has no idea what he wants. Does he want control over the song? Sex? Breakfast in bed? A public apology? All of the above? With Brian in this sort of mood it's impossible to gauge and Freddie feels so wrong-footed by it, used to knowing exactly what to say or do to fan the flame of Brian's temper or douse it, depending on the sort of mood he's in.

"Brian?" Freddie asks hesitantly. "Darling?" He doesn't even have anything to ask, he just can't stand the silence.

Brian continues to ignore him and Freddie doesn't try again, the rejection of it stinging too much to continue to punish himself that way.

Maybe Brian could punish him, he usually likes that.

"Do you want to spank me?" Freddie offers quietly.

Brian's hands still for a moment on the neck of his guitar and Freddie feels a surge of triumph; that's _something_ , at least.

"I'm too angry with you to do anything like that," Brian says without looking over. His hands move again, carefully threading a string through a guitar peg, and Freddie sits forward on the riser.

That was progress, at least he _responded_.

"I don't mind," he insists. "Brian, you can—"

" _I_ mind," Brian snaps suddenly. "That's not why we do that."

Freddie drops it at once, sensing that he's going to get nowhere down that road and quite happy _not_ to be bent over Brian's lap while he's in this mood, but at least he got _something_ out of him. It's not altogether unsurprising; sex is usually the best way to get through to Brian, whether it's getting him to agree with what Freddie wants or distracting him from something else. And Freddie can't fix the guitar for him but he _does_ know rather a lot about making Brian feel good so he slides off the drum riser and kneels in front of him.

Brian doesn't react but Freddie is undeterred, sliding one hand slowly, pointedly along Brian's thigh. When he reaches his hip he trails his hand across, onto his crotch, and shuffles a little closer.

Brian doesn't acknowledge him but widens his legs slightly, the message clear. _Continue_.

Freddie leans down to press a kiss to the denim-clad inside of Brian's knee, then a trail of them along his thigh before he unclasps the button and carefully opens his zip. He'd expected to find him still soft, needing a little attention before Freddie could really do anything, but he's already hardening in his boxers.

Freddie kisses him again, over the fabric, before he hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls it down enough to get at what he wants.

Brian is still silent, his hands moving above and around Freddie's head to continue fixing the guitar, so when Freddie presses a kiss to the tip of his cock it's loud and dirty, the smack of wet lips on skin. Freddie loves it and does it again before lovingly running his tongue under the head, just gently closing his mouth around the tip.

He's done this countless times and it would easy to fall into the habit of it, an old routine that he could do in his sleep, but this time Freddie focuses. He puts all of his attention into it, into making it good and perfect, into _feeling_ it and proving to Brian how fucking sorry he is. He's _desperate_ for his attention, starved of it while he looks up at him and sees Brian's gaze is beyond him, watching his own hands work, twisting strings and testing the tension with dull _twangs_ that only serve to remind Freddie that Brian's _busy_.

He doesn't try to swallow him whole but takes it slow, runs the tip of his finger along Brian's length as he sucks just gently and patiently takes him deeper a little at a time.

Brian is trying his damndest not to react but Freddie can hear the unsteadiness when he breathes and it buoys him; he _can_ fix this, he can make it up to him.

He gives a little moan for Brian's benefit before pulling off to catch his breath, stroking him instead. He doesn't say anything, doesn't break the careful peace that has settled over the room, and uses his tongue for a few moments, delicately and attentively working him over.

"I'm sorry, darling," he murmurs quietly, pressing a kiss right against the tip. "I'm sorry," he says again, moving his lips down and kissing him again. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He keeps repeating it, interspersing each whispered apology with another sweet kiss, making his way down the length of Brian's cock to his balls and back up. He doesn't rush, doesn't try to goad Brian into finishing early so it can be over and done with; that's not the point of this.

Freddie is nigh on worshipful as he takes the head back into his mouth and slowly pushes down, taking Brian right into the back of his mouth, across the very back of his tongue, and further still so he can feel him in his throat. He does it over and over, methodic and slow, attentively sucking and swallowing each time Brian wets his tongue with pre-come.

Brian doesn't actually make a sound but Freddie can tell when he's close just because he's done this so many times before and he pulls back a little, just keeping the last fist-length in his mouth while he works Brian right up to the edge.

The sound of strings being plucked on the guitar stopped at some point, Freddie isn't aware of when, and he sees Brian's hand tense into a fist where it's resting on his knee.

He keeps going, doesn't stop until Brian lets out the tiniest, bitten-down groan and spills all over Freddie's tongue, keeps sucking as Brian's cock leaks more and more into his mouth, carefully swallowing around him until all that's left is his own saliva.

It's probably the quietest thing they've ever done and Freddie gently removes his mouth and sits back, trying not to breathe too heavily as he tries to catch his breath.

Brian still doesn't say anything, just tucks himself back into his boxers and zips up his jeans. He reaches out to carry on fixing his guitar, on the final string now, without so much as looking at Freddie.

The rejection stings, badly, but Freddie takes it on the chin as best he can. He wasn't expecting Brian to just forgive him as easily as that, that was an apology more than anything else, but he feels hollowed out and _aches_ with how badly he wants Brian to just _touch_ him, to tell him that they'll sort this out. Freddie doesn't care what it takes, he just _needs_ it to be fixed.

Hesitantly, Freddie tips his head down to let it rest on Brian's knee, and breathes a little easier when Brian doesn't shove him away.

He can hear that the notes from the guitar are nearly there, now, strings tight enough to play the right notes when Brian plucks them, and the relief is dizzying. If Freddie had broken that guitar he doesn't know _what_ he'd have done. He doesn't know what to do even _now_.

Brian doesn't get up when he finally sets his guitar back in its stand, he just sits there for a long while, with Freddie's head against him, expecting Freddie to break the silence.

He doesn't.

Freddie wants to. He keeps opening his mouth with nothing to say, desperate to say _anything_ to just remind Brian that he's there, but he holds himself back. If Brian wants him to wait here all night like this, he will.

"Are you ready to go home?" Brian asks eventually. His voice is rough after so long spent in silence, with all the moans he'd had to hold back.

Freddie tilts his head back to look at him and his heart seizes a bit. He can't bear the thought of going home and feeling this cold and distant there, of being banished to the sofa and left to spend the night in cold, lonely solitude.

"Do you...do you want to get a drink or something?" he suggests quietly.

"No. I want to go home. Do you want to come with me, or not?"

Freddie nods and gets to his feet, steeling himself. He deserves this, he closed those fucking scissors, he knew _exactly_ what he was doing and he did it anyway. He'll pay his dues.

"Is the guitar okay?" he asks cautiously, following Brian to the door.

"It'll be fine." Brian's answer is curt and short but at least it's an answer.

 _Will we be okay?_ Freddie doesn't ask, afraid of the answer.

They walk back in silence and Freddie keeps half a step behind Brian, head down. Their little apartment isn't far and Freddie wishes the walk was longer; they reach their front door in mere minutes and Freddie's not ready for them to be home, he doesn't have the magic solution for how to fix this, how to make Brian forgive him.

Defeated, Freddie doesn't follow Brian to bed but goes instead to the sofa, exiling himself before Brian can do it for him.

Brian stops on the threshold of the bedroom and turns around. "What are you doing?" he asks.

Freddie pauses. "I was going to…" He gestures at the sofa, feeling too pathetic to actually voice it aloud.

Brian arches an eyebrow. "Well you can't very well make anything up to me from there, can you."

Freddie's eyes go wide and hopeful and Brian jerks his thumb roughly over his shoulder. _Get in there_.

Freddie doesn't waste a second, practically throwing himself across the room and into the bedroom, heart pounding with relief.

Brian slams the door shut and turns to face him. "Clothes off," he orders. "Get on the bed."

That alone sends a shiver of pure lust through Freddie and he's quick to comply, stripping his t-shirt in record time and wriggling out of his jeans as he shuffles up the bed, watching Brian expectantly.

"Lube's in the drawer," Brian tells him. "You know what to do."

Freddie does. Brian usually does this part but Freddie's no stranger to it and he scrambles to grab the lube, coating his fingers in it and taking a deep breath before he reaches down to start pushing one into himself.

Brian drifts over to the foot of the bed and stands there towering over him, watching so intensely Freddie can feel himself blushing. They haven't really done _this_ before, with Brian just watching, and it's going straight to his cock.

"Look at me," Brian says as soon as Freddie closes his eyes to try and focus.

Freddie opens them at once, meeting his gaze. He feels too warm all over, skin prickling with the attention, somehow more aroused by _that_ than by the finger he's working inside himself.

While Freddie's watching, Brian lifts two fingers and Freddie immediately complies though he's still a bit tight for it. It takes him a few moments of relaxing and another dose of lube before he manages it, his arm already aching from the awkward angle; he's gotten so used to having regular sex with someone who'll do this for him that he'd entirely forgotten how fucking _uncomfortable_ it could get.

"Touch yourself," Brian tells him suddenly. "With your other hand. Do it like I would."

That means _slow_. Freddie curls his fist around his cock and he has to break eye contact with Brian because he can't help but tip his head back, leaning into his shoulders as he forces himself to stroke just _slowly_ , imagining it's Brian's hand around him, clever and rhythmic.

"I want you to tell me when you get close," Brian says. "And _look at me_. I won't tell you again."

Freddie's eyes fly open and he nods, not trusting his voice to actually come out if he tries to speak. Between Brian acting like that and touching himself like he is, he's not going to last long at all.

"Now," Brian continues. "Have you thought about how you're going to make this up to me?"

"I'll do anything, darling," Freddie gasps. "You can have the song, we'll do it how you want."

Brian nods, like he was expecting that suggestion. "I'm going to play it quick," he says. "It sounds better like that."

Freddie just nods. "I love it like that. I love everything you play."

"And the solo's going to go at the end, after that final chorus, with you just singing the last line after."

Freddie's still nodding. "Anything, do what you like with it, it's yours. Darling, I'm close now—"

"Stop," Brian says at once. "Hands off."

Freddie feels like the air's been punched from him, hearing that. He does stop, though it's torture to do so, and his toes curl in the sheets as his body cries out at him for just a few seconds more, he was so _nearly_ there, fuck.

"What else?" Brian asks casually.

Freddie can barely remember how to think. "You can have as many solos as you like, on the album, on the tour. We'll do it all, darling," he says mindlessly. He has to curl his hand into a tight fist so he won't touch himself.

"Mmm." Brian doesn't sound impressed. Probably because he'd have gotten his way on that, anyway.

"You can have the single," Freddie tries. "One of yours, whichever one you want."

"No," Brian says. "We'll choose that together, at the end. Whichever song's best."

"Album title, then," Freddie seizes on. "I'll side with whatever you pick. And the cover." If the two of them team up on a decision, it's as good as made for the band with how stubborn they can be.

Brian doesn't contest this one. "Carry on," he says. "Tell me when you get close. And tell me what else you're going to do."

Freddie pushes both fingers back in at once and squeezes his cock tight, giving a few quick, rough strokes because he feels like he might _die_ otherwise.

" _Slow_ ," Brian reminds him.

Freddie forces his fist a bit looser and slows down, biting his lip so hard it hurts. "I'll wake you every morning with a blowjob," he promises breathlessly.

"I look forward to it," Brian tells him.

Freddie struggles to think of what else when all he cares about is getting off, it's a Herculean task to not just grasp tight and jerk himself to the end in a few seconds flat, which he's positive he could do just now.

"You can take photos of us in the bedroom," Freddie says quickly, desperately trying to cycle through anything he's denied Brian recently. "Just—just promise not to show anyone."

"You know I wouldn't." Brian's face is thoughtful, though, and a tiny bit pleased.

"I'm close, Brian, _please_ —"

"Stop," Brian says again, and Freddie wants to cry but he stops obediently. He can't stop his hips from straining though, trying to press into something that isn't there, and puts his fist to his mouth to bite down on it for a moment and get himself under control.

"Brian, _please_."

"What else?"

" _Anything_!"

Brian doesn't even bother replying; Freddie knows full well he wants specifics. He tries to breathe and to _think_ through the red haze of pure, nearly painful arousal that's filled every fibre of his being.

"You can spank me, when you're not angry anymore."

"Oh, I'm going to," Brian assures him. "Carry on. With three, this time." He puts three long fingers up to demonstrate what he means. "Tell me when you get close."

Freddie's going to have _nightmares_ about those words but he pushes three fingers inside and starts stroking himself again. He can't take it as slow as Brian wants him to, he fucking _can't_ , and has to close his eyes for a few seconds to try and centre himself, hoping Brian will just think it's a long blink. Sweat is dripping off his forehead, he doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

"What else?" Brian asks.

Freddie doesn't _know_ what else, his whole world has been reduced to this one orgasm he can feel _just_ eluding him and he's never wanted anything so badly in his life. He feels like he'd chop off his fucking _hand_ and give it to Brian if he'd just let him come.

"I'll wear that little outfit you bought me," Freddie says hoarsely. "With the thong." That had been a long battle of wills, a kink of Brian's Freddie had refused to entertain for sheer terror of looking ridiculous.

It's a winner, though. Brian unzips his jeans and comes right to the edge of the bed. "Will you let me buy you more?"

Freddie nods desperately, squeezing his cock so tightly, twisting his wrist without thinking, habit taking over. "As many as you like, I'll wear whatever you want," he promises hysterically. He can barely get the words out, his voice is all over the place and he can't take in a full breath, realising almost too late that he's not supposed to be finishing. "God, fuck, I'm so close now, Brian, _please_ let me—"

"Stop," Brian says again, unswayed. He must sense Freddie's reluctance because his eyebrows jump dangerously. "Hands above your head, Freddie."

Freddie clenches his teeth and bites back a genuine sob, flinging his hands above his head in a fit of temper and nearly ripping the sheet he fists it so hard.

Brian leans over and catches him by the backs of his knees, dragging him closer, right to the edge of the mattress, so he can press the tip of his cock into him. "Keep your hands where they are, Freddie," he says, in a tone that brooks no argument. "You wait to come until I say you can. Do you understand?"

Freddie nods silently, teeth still grit together with the effort of doing as he's told, and tries to push down on Brian a little so he has _something_.

Brian gives it to him a second later in one quick, rough thrust that makes Freddie cry out at how deeply he's taken in the space of a heartbeat. Brian doesn't give him a chance to recover; as soon as he's in he starts up a punishing rhythm that has Freddie clenching at his hair rather than the sheets.

He's usually vocal anyway but tonight he's helpless to the sounds his body wants and _needs_ him to make, moaning and crying out each time Brian buries himself inside him.

Brian's not angled in any way to touch Freddie's cock but every couple of strokes he catches him _just so_ and Freddie's in severe danger of breaking the rules without so much as a hand on him.

"Brian, please," he gasps out, " _please_ , darling, I'm going to come soon, please say I can, _please_ , darling."

"Not yet," Brian says, unrelenting. He's panting, hands tight on Freddie's legs, fingernails digging in.

Freddie's sure his ass is going to be bruised tomorrow morning, Brian's bony hips are slamming into him so hard, and he's not going to be sitting on any hard chairs, that's for fucking sure.

"Brian, _please_!" Half the city must've heard him begging by now but Freddie's beyond all sense of dignity; the fucking world could burn to the ground and Freddie wouldn't care at all just as long as Brian would say he could come.

" _Not yet_."

Freddie shudders and tries to contain his sob of frustration, squirming on Brian's cock, mindless of the tears that roll down his cheeks. He can't hold it any longer, something in him is going to break and never be the same if he doesn't let go, he can't, he _can't_ —

"Now, Freddie, _show me_ ," Brian demands and Freddie actually screams with it as he gives in, white-hot pleasure scorching its way through him and burning out everything else, carrying him on a rushing wave of _BrianBrianBrian_ and nothing but this feeling, this completeness, and _fuck_ , it's never felt this good before, this deep, this _perfect_.

Freddie can't breathe and doesn't need to, just needs _this_.

By the time he finally comes down and blinks his eyes open, he's not where he was; they're further up the bed and Freddie's thighs are wet and sticky with Brian's come. Brian himself is led beside Freddie, breathing hard and looking as dazed as Freddie feels.

He blindly reaches out to take Freddie's hand and twine their fingers together, rolling to face him with great effort and pressing a kiss to his jaw.

"You were amazing," Brian tells him. "Perfect. You did so well, Fred."

The words soothe Freddie like a balm. "I'm so sorry, darling," he says with quiet, exhausted fervour. "I really am."

"I know," Brian says softly. He lifts their linked hands and kisses Freddie's knuckles. "I forgive you. You're _never_ allowed near my guitar again, but I forgive you."

Freddie closes his eyes so he won't tear up, because for hours now that's all he's wanted to hear. The relief is better than any drug he's ever taken and Freddie's breath trembles out of him as he finally, finally relaxes.

"Thank you," he whispers, pressing himself as close to Brian as he can get without crawling inside him.

Brian wraps his free arm around him and holds him tight, giving him a squeeze. "You should get some sleep," he says with quiet relish. "We've got a big day in the studio tomorrow, I want to re-do most of the vocals we've got laid down."

"Of course, darling," Freddie agrees sleepily.

"Mhmm," Brian hums with no small amount of satisfaction. "Big day in the studio, and then a _big_ night ahead of you."

Freddie can _feel_ him smirking.

"Smug bastard," he mutters without feeling, too glad to be forgiven to begrudge Brian being at all pleased with himself. He _did_ just win about half a dozen ongoing battles in one fell swoop, after all. "What time do you want your wake-up call?"

"Early," Brian replies, curling around Freddie and closing his eyes to sleep. "You've got a _lot_ of work to do."

 

***

 

In the end Brian calls the song  _No Strings Attached_ and the damn thing doesn't even make the album.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
